Fall From Grace
by Mellaithwen
Summary: A brother’s worst nightmare. Sam is forced to face the reality that Dean is dying.
1. Chapter 1

**Fall From Grace**

**By Mellaithwen**

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**Rating: T**

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**Genre: Angst**

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**Disclaimer: Don't own them, sadly enough.**

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**SPOILERS: taken from the WB promo for the new episode 'Faith' – don't say I didn't warn you.**

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**Summary: A brother's worst nightmare; Sam is forced to face the reality that Dean is dying. **

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Dean desperately wanted his brother to understand, and to cope somehow, and to live as he should, but he knew Sam wouldn't. He had seen the way Sam had reacted to death. And it wasn't good. He always needed someone to pull him back, but so far, only Dean had grabbed him. And what if no one else could?

He didn't want Sam to suffer, especially not because of him. That's why he had said it the way he had it, trying to make it so that if he didn't care, then Sam wouldn't either. But no, that only worked with Sammy. A little kid who was so predictable. And who followed his brother wherever he went.

Maybe Sam was morphing into Sammy, or at least, a more adapt version of the little brother he had once known.

Either way, it hadn't worked. And Dean had fought to cringe at his own tone of voice, hearing it as Sam did. Cold and cruel with no hope for salvation. "I'm gonna die, and you can't stop it."

Like nothing more than a child's chorus of _Na na na na naaa, _he was taking away everything his brother held dear. He was robbing Sam of his safety net, of his protector, and sole company. His guide through the horrible muck that his life seemed lodged beneath.

To Sam the voice had been horrible, the words that brought doom coupled with the weak, rasping sound of what had once been his brother's confident and sarcastic tone was enough to make him die inside.

He looked at him from the foot of the bed, and Sam knew his presence was known. As soon as he had walked in he had seen a flinch, not of fear, but simply awareness. He reined his emotions, bringing all tears to a halt before they had the chance to trail down his cheeks. He wouldn't cry in front of Dean. He wouldn't do that to him, he wouldn't scare him. He would joke with him, like he wanted, and he would listen, and reassure, but he wouldn't cry, because only then would Dean truly realize, and Sam didn't want him to carry the burden any more than he already had.

Sam had stared at him, question upon question dying upon his lips as he stood there speechless staring at the form of his older brother, looking so fragile as he lay there, adorned in the mint green hospital gown, his arm draped lazily over his torso as he looked at his little brother through half lidded eyes, huge bags under them, and frown lines still visible from when he had no doubt grimaced in pain.

"N-no." Sam merely muttered, looking everywhere focusing on the green line that shot across the screen of the machine his brother was attached to. Proving that his brother was indeed alive. The heart monitor said so, so clearly everything Dean was saying was laced with bull-shit.

"Sam." Dean had said firmly, trying to gain his brother's attention but he only seemed to hurt the young man more, who desperately longed to be called "Sammy" once more. Dean had chosen the more mature form of the name so that he could see Sam as his equal, and not his little brother, so that he could help him find the strength, but to Sam it merely seemed as though his brother had given up, in every aspect, including their running fight when it came to Dean being unable to forget old habits.

"No, no, no." He continued to mutter as more tears fell and he ground his fists into his forehead as though it would make him forget.

After all, ignorance is bliss, and god he wished he didn't know. He wished he wasn't here, staring at the white walls, the white floors, trying desperately to forget the image of his brother, his everything, lying weak on a hospital bed. Bile rose up in his throat as he vaguely wondered how long Dean had known. How long had it been kept a secret and why? Maybe Sam hadn't been around to hear it, maybe he'd been too busy.

What if Dean had tried to call him instead of breaking and entering? Would he have answered the phone? Probably not…

Worse yet, what if it had been their father, telling him of Dean's worsening condition prematurely and he hadn't answered. That was, if Dean ever told his father, which he highly doubted. Sam may have been gone for a few years, but he was still the closest person to Dean in the entire world. Why did their family have to be so messed up?

He couldn't stand it. He couldn't bare the thought of looking up and seeing Dean so ill. So weak, and broken. His knuckles were white, his nails digging into his palms. His mouth was dry, and the lump in his throat was choking him. He didn't want to leave Dean, but at that moment, it was the only thing he knew how to do. Run.

He gave no explanation, no reason; he just left; his feet practically sliding across the tiles in his speed. His want, his need, to leave.

He pushed open the door, and walked away, blocking out the feeble cries of his brother as he lengthened the distance between them as he continued to walk down the long corridor.

He jumped down the steps four at a time, his long legs doing so with ease. He had no desire to stand in a lift for five minutes, the slow drum of the wiring outside bringing it up and down in the enclosed space would only give him time to think; time to wonder, and maybe even accept.

He didn't want to accept anything, because if he didn't, then it wasn't real.

He preferred to take on the childish psychology that if you can't see them, then they can't see you, and in the same sense, if he ignored it, it was sure to go away.

Did that mean if he ignored this serious illness taking a hold of his brother that Dean would go away?

Suddenly the childishness didn't shield him from the reality of it all.

Dean was going away, from somewhere he could never return.

The breeze of a light winter hit his face as he pushed both doors of the hospital entrance open. Relishing in the fresh air, no longer tinged with the stench of despair and medicine, and now only the wailing of nearby sirens reached his ears. He let go of the doors, allowing them to swing close, as he walked away, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched. He watched, detached, as the ambulance came to a stop outside of the doors, and a patient was unloaded. He had walked through the Emergency Room needlessly, when there were other exits and entrances for different parts of the hospital.

He hadn't been through the ER for some hours, not since he had first rushed his brother in...

He kept walking, walking as far as he could from the hospital. He crossed roads, and walked along pavements, he was sure to have been walking for over an hour when he finally had the urge to stop.

The area around him had changed so much. The only thing that seemed alive anymore was the lush grass of a field. He had the urge to surround himself in it, instead of being so close to the loneliness of the road. The road he and his brother had been travelling for so long.

He jumped over the small fence and shrubbery and landed on the soft blades of green. He walked towards the middle, as though he wanted to prove to himself that the grass was never greener on the other side, as though hopelessness of any kind, other than what lay so vulnerable in a hospital bed wearing a green gown, was welcome to destroy him.

The outburst came swiftly, his turmoil and despair focused on screaming until his throat was hoarse because it seemed as though it were the only thing possible to ease his pain.

"You can't take him from me! Do you hear me! I WON'T LET YOU!" He was screaming. Screaming at everything, at the world for carrying on when his brother was dying, at the cars that drove past with the normal people and their normal lives that he would never get.

He screamed at the ungrateful that lived their lives without a care in the world, where grief and heart-ache didn't touch them. He screamed at the Heavens if they were even there, he screamed at God in his chariot, telling him straight that this was not deserved. That this was not fair! He screamed at himself for not being a better person, a better brother. He should have noticed, he should have seen. But truth be told he didn't want to.

He'd wondered, once. But he never wanted to think of it, the possibility of death being so close so soon.

When he had been young, and much more innocent in his endeavours, he had dreamt once of the worst thing in the world. He stood alone among the dead; among his family and friends. The only one left to witness his own fall from grace as the grief reached its peak. He had not understood it, not really paid heed to the message that one day it might be true.

But now he was facing it;

A brother's worst nightmare.

His worst nightmare.

Everyone's worst nightmare; facing the harsh truth, that in the end, we're all alone.

The hunting couldn't have helped his health, Sam knew, and deep down he realized he was desperately searching for a way to blame their father. The great John Winchester, a lousy father but an expert at abandoning his children. Leaving without a trace.

"_It doesn't matter what he wants."_ He had said, and his brother had retorted in typical Dean-fashion;

"_See, that attitude, right there? That is why I always get the extra cookie."_

He would have laughed, had he not been in the middle of proving his point. Hell, he would have laughed now at the memory, had his feelings not been so sombre and his reasons for remembrance not been so depressing. Why couldn't he have anyone here to help him? Why couldn't their father turn up out of thin air. His hands were still in his pockets ad he could feel the small bundle, the weight of his phone. He took it out and stared at it for a moment, before dialling the numbers he had come to know off by heart.

"This is John Winchester. If this is an emergency, call my son Dean..."

Sam choked back a sob from hearing the name. He contained himself in time to hear his brother's number and then the beep. He took a deep breath, well aware that their father had still not turned up even when they might have been faced with their mother's murderer. He realised quickly he had kept silent and decided to leave the message already.

"Dad? It's-it's Sam, something's happened, something big, and I can't do it on my own, and I know-I know I've said that before, but, I just," He took a deep breath, unable to stop the tears. "Dean's dying dad."

He took another deep breath before relaying the information about their whereabouts, though he knew the great John Winchester wouldn't turn up. Not even for his oldest son's last moments. With a click he hung up and sighed, letting the tears fall down his face, but banishing the occasional hiccup.

Maybe he could call one of his friends? Hell, he'd even told Becky about his job, his real job, but contacting her was risky, especially seeing as the law enforcement all seemed to think Dean was already dead over there...

He ground his teeth together, muttering; "Why have we all got to be such freaks?"

"_Well I'm a freak too. I'm right there with you, all the way."_

Funny how the little things, the occasional dialogue now mattered more to him than anything else.

He couldn't lose him. He wouldn't!

But what if he did? He found himself unwillingly thinking ahead, to a cruel precession in a small cemetery. Marble stones, cold, unfeeling, the resting place of the dead, and centre-fold for pain.

He didn't want to leave his brother there, but if Dean was telling the truth. If his casual words could be trusted, then, he would have to.

But that wasn't fair.

Dean was the older brother, he was the one who took care of this kind of thing, and he helped Sam through pain. But how would he help Sam through the pain of losing him? How would Sam go on? It wasn't possible, and on some level both brothers knew it. Dean had caused this problem; he had made himself invincible in his brother's eyes.

Even now, even when he knew they were both living on borrowed time, Dean when it came to breathing, and Sam when it came to wasting the precious moments they had left together, Dean was still trying to act like nothing fazed him. And it shook Sam to his core, just as much as the words had.

Dean had drilled the mantra that he would always be there for his little brother, only to shoot him down.

_No_, Sam grimaced. _I'm the one who did the shooting._

He wouldn't have had it any other way. He loved Dean more than anything, because he was safety in corporeal form. Because Dean was the protector and he couldn't help love his big brother, who always came through. He would die for him, but now it seemed that he wouldn't even get the chance.

His brother wasn't being cold, Sam realised as he started the slow trek back to the hospital, because Dean never wanted to upset his brother. He wanted to shield him from the cruelties of the world forever and ever. And Sam would be damned if he was going to take that away from him now, when it was most likely his last wish. There were too many Why's circling his brain to make any sense anymore, and subconsciously he found himself running faster and faster. More than eager to see his brother. He had raced passed reception, taking a different entrance this time, and thundering up the stairs in a similar fashion to the way he had left. Four steps at a time, as he lunged up each one.

Reaching his destination, he swept down the corridor, in no need of directions. He knew where he was going, he would never forget.

He peered into the small window on the door that led to the ward, he could see that for the moment, Dean was looking out of the window in the room, while a nurse checked the chart information in there, and Sam paused. Instead of knocking he stood back, stumbling to the other side of the corridor and waiting there on the window shelf.

"Sir?" The kind nurse's voice drifted over to where he now stood in the corridor some time later. He had been lost in his thoughts and memories and desperately racking his brain for ways to make up for all of his mistakes. Dean would never appreciate apologies, and he certainly never wanted sympathy. After all, that would most certainly lead to a chick-flick moment, and his brother would do anything to avoid those. Presents were empty gestures, and Dean deserved better, so maybe all Sam needed to do, was whatever was asked of him. That would be his gift to his brother.

But what if he was asked the impossible? What if he was asked to not grieve, which he knew Dean would most likely mask inside of a joke. What if he was asked to be careful? Which as much as he'd like to dispute, really wasn't in his vocabulary. He was a lot like his brother in that respect, and he knew he didn't appreciate it enough.

"Sir?" There's that voice again, trying to break through the noise of the bustling hospital, to where he still stood, having stepped as far as the door many times, so far unable to go in. He had been staring out of the window when she had called to him. He still didn't turn. He was stubborn, and afraid, a deadly combination when it came to doing something you seriously didn't want to do. Like walking into a ward, and seeing your brother as pale as death, with bags under his eyes-

"Sam?" She said carefully, breaking him from his reverie with her gentle voice as to not offend. He spun around and looked at her, almost lost, confused, and half-wondering if maybe he had spoken to her earlier and forgotten. His cheeks began to blush slightly, which only made him look healthier than the shadow of a man he had been so far.

She smiled slightly at him, reassuring as was her job. "He's asking for you." She said, clutching the board in her hand and walking away. Sam swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded, more to himself than to the nurse. He stepped into the ward, and making his way over to his brother's bed. Pulling the curtains slightly, knowing how his brother hated looking vulnerable.

He wouldn't cry. But he wouldn't leave him either. Not ever.

"Hey, Sam," His brother's voice greeted in the same weak, croaked fashion as earlier. Sam ignored him, choosing instead to speed over to Dean's side and kneel next to the bed, his tall frame easily allowing him to continue leaning on the side where his brother's arm lay. He grabbed the hand. Squeezed it. And corrected, "Its Sammy to you, Dean."

And it always would be.

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	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own it, but I did just see a trailer at the cinema for Supernatural on ITV2 **

**Okay, I wasn't going to do a second chapter, and its just another one-shot, written before Faith, and since it was so different, I figured I'd post it anyway. **

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"A faith healer?" Dean chorused in disbelief. He stared at Sam for a moment. His brother, god bless him and his teary eyes, had been a complete train wreck. His eyes, red, and puffy, betrayed his obvious sadness and Dean felt more and more guilty as each moment passed and he was forced to keep eye contact. He had knelt by his bed side and rattled on and on about various chick-flick situations, and how he wouldn't leave him, not now, not ever.

And as uncomfortable as this made Dean, he didn't once comment on it, choosing instead to smile and nod.

That was until now.

He had encouraged (more like forced) Sam to take a walk, to get out of the hospital, despite the fact that he had done so only some three hours earlier. But upon Sam's return, it was clear his attitude had lightened. His eyes were clear, almost alight with some kind of happiness, and though Dean wanted more than anything for Sam to be happy, he still found it rather rude. He was dying after all. Though he would laugh in its face for as long as possible if it meant he was able to accept it just that little bit easier.

And then Sam had told him, he had explained all about this Roy LeGrange and his supposed healing abilities. Any other time, Dean might have gotten up, interested by this clearly supernatural phenomenon, but right now, he preferred to raise his eyebrow, and become the cynic he hated to be. Sam wasn't just saying it casually. He wanted Dean to go there, to be healed.

"Dean, you promised you'd let me help you-"

"Yeah; fluffing my pillow, luring pretty nurses to my bedside, not going to see some whack-job in a tent!"

"Dean!" Sam reprimanded, having made himself believe it was the right thing, the only thing, to do, to be done. "For once in your life just shut your mouth."

Dean paled visibly, which was quite something seeing as his pallor was already close to ghostly. For a moment Sam didn't understand, but as he neared his brother, and was met by a violent flinch on Dean's part, he stopped in his tracks instantly.

"Oh god," He began, stammering, "Dean, I didn't mean it like that, I just-."

"Why don't you go get a cup of coffee or something, Sam?"

Sam nodded, trying to draw some saliva into his dry throat. Shaking his head in disbelief at his own careless actions, as he edged out of the room. Was this how it was always going to be? Was he always going to be held accountable for his deeds?

Wasn't that what he deserved? God, he had shot his own brother, almost in cold blood. A part of him wanted to be held accountable for ever, just so he could feel better as he knew he was being treated accordingly with his own, and others, guilt.

But the other part of him wanted to forget it all, and wished Dean could do the same. He just wanted to help, he wanted things back to normal, but it wasn't going to happen. Not now, not with Dean-

"You're taking him to see Roy?" The nurse asked as Sam grabbed his cup of coffee, snapping him out of his morbid thoughts. He turned to look at her, staring for a moment.

"Nurse Matthews," She said, adjusting the charts to rest under her arm as she held out a hand to be shaken.

"Sam," He said, weary

"I overheard your conversation with your brother," She nodded back to the ward to his right, "about a Faith Healer."

He had expected this from the staff, after all, they were working in medicine, and it was no surprise that they might be a little sceptical, but Nurse Matthews was so far only neutral, in her question.

"Yeah, I can't just give up."

"Oh no, don't ever give up, it's just-."

She stopped, sighing, wondering for a moment if she should leave it, and question herself on whether or not it was her place to tell others how to handle death.

"It's just what?" Sam pressed, not letting go that easily.

"Well it's a little cruel isn't it?"

Sam blanched, he hadn't expected that.

"All of these people are ill," She pointed to the Ward, "And around their families and friends they're strong, and they've accepted it, but it's all a lie, once they're alone, they're terrified, they're sad, upset, not one of them wants to die, no matter what they tell you."

Sam swallowed, his brother had been everything she had described; strong and accepting, but had the rest been true, about his state when Sam would be ushered away in the night? Was Dean like that now, as he stood next to the crude vending machine talking to the Nurse? He suddenly wanted to end the conversation quickly, but then it occurred to him that Dean would hate to be caught upset, so he banished the thoughts of running away.

Dean looked up at the Nurse, who had stopped talking after seeing Sam turn away, but now, as she kept eye contact, she continued earnestly.

"I know you want to save your brother Sam, he's a good man, but is it fair to get his hopes up like that?"

"What do you mean? You think he's a fraud." And just like that, Sam had turned the conversation to business. He had veered into the realm of interrogation. "You sounded like you knew Roy." He said, referring to her casual interruption earlier, she hadn't merely referred to the healer, by surname or profession but by his first name.

"He was here not too long ago, in this hospital." She said simply, and it seemed to answer the pressing question of how she knew him. "I've seen some of the worst case scenario's play out for the good, but what if this doesn't work? You really think Dean's gonna be able to handle that?"

"I can't just sit there and do nothing!"

"I'm not suggesting you do Sam but-."

"No! I am taking him to the healer, and he's going to be fine!"

"It sounds like you're trying to convince yourself more than me."

She had gone too far but she couldn't turn back on her own words, she had been brought up to stand by her opinion, place or no, she couldn't let the young man walk away without considering the possibility that maybe he was being selfish, that maybe, just maybe, there was only one alternative, and that was to live life to the full, and spend every last moment with his brother and helping him through the hardship instead of sending bitter glances around to others should this healer not step up to the pedestal that was gaining height with every moment Sam spoke in his defence.

He looked down, caught out, his hands shaking, his anger getting the best of him as he became more and more frustrated. Why couldn't she see this needed to be done?

She took them in her own, mindful of the cup of now lukewarm coffee, and her hands felt so soft against his own rough palms, she squeezed, trying to comfort him and she let them fall down to his sides, still clutching the unwanted beverage.

"You do what you have to, Sam, but, be careful."

He would be careful. More than careful. He would save Dean, he would save his brother, and be damned at the consequences, and he wouldn't go through this alone. He couldn't. He would save his brother.

He would save his Dean. His rock, anchor, and pain in the ass.

He would grab his brother from the clutches of certain death, he would pull him back, pull him far away, he would clutch him though the Winchester's were famed for their lack of touchy-feely-self-help-yoga-crap as Dean had so aptly put it once not so long ago.

He would save him, because he didn't know what he'd do if he didn't. He had become dependant. He had been dependant on his brother as children, but during the absence of any brotherly attributes in college he had gotten close to Jess. Dependant on her love and support. And then poof, she was gone, in not a puff of smoke, but a huge billowing cloud brought on by the flames engulfing her.

He had become dependant on Dean, and now out of some cruel joke and twist of face, he was going to get taken to? Well no, Sam wouldn't stand for it. Sammy would not let his brother die, because he owed him that much if not so much more.

He swallowed, before heading back to the ward. Taking tentative steps aware of his brother's hesitance. What did it matter? For once, for last, maybe, he was the protector, and it was up to him to save the day, and by god he would do it with style.

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